Begot Of Nothing
by Pargoletta
Summary: The baptism of Romeo's son forces Benvolio to reconsider his place in the House of Montague.  A Caro-verse story.


Note: Welcome to this story! It turned out much longer than any of my other one-shots. I hope you don't mind; it has a particular kind of arc, and I couldn't find a good place to break it. So, you get the whole thing in one big slurp.

I think I've gotten the baptism mostly right. The section that you see is from the end of the whole Mass. There are a couple of things that are technically not quite right about it, but that I kept so as to remain consistent with the original _Caro_. First, Rosaline should be the one holding Marcello, not Benvolio. Second, I read that nuns and priests aren't really supposed to be godparents. Rosaline is about to enter a convent, but she hasn't done so yet. I don't know if this rule applies to her. But when I wrote about Marcello's baptism the first time, I didn't even know that there were these sorts of rules to look up, so that was what I wrote.

Finally, Romeo and Benvolio discuss an aspect of being a godparent that I think was taken much more seriously during the Renaissance than it is today. The godparent was often listed in family records as a coparent, and was expected to take a serious hand in helping to raise the child. Kinship ties could certainly be strengthened by judicious bestowal of this particular honor. I learned much of this from Louis Haas's excellent book _The Renaissance Man and His Children_.

Okay, boring stuff over. On to the story! See you at the end.

* * *

><p><strong>Begot Of Nothing<strong>

* * *

><p>"Will you be baptized?" Friar Lawrence asked.<p>

Benvolio took a deep breath and shifted his cousin's new baby in his arms. Beside him, Rosaline Capulet straightened her skirts, then glanced up to catch Benvolio's eye. She gave a tiny nod, and together, they stepped toward the font. "I will," they said together, on the child's behalf. A few steps off to the side, Romeo smiled at them, trembling a little with anticipation. Friar Lawrence pulled the blanket back from the baby's head, then turned to Romeo.

"By what name shall this child be called?"

"Mar-" Romeo's voice cracked with anticipation, and he flushed bright red. Friar Lawrence's eyes twinkled in sympathy, and Romeo cleared his throat to try again. "Marcello Tiberio," he announced. In the first rank of the congregation, Uncle Tiberio stood a little straighter, beaming with family pride.

Benvolio held the baby over the font, and Rosaline leaned in to help support the head. Friar Lawrence dipped up some of the holy water in a small silver cup. "Marcello Tiberio," he said, "I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," and he poured water three times over Marcello's brow. Marcello fussed and waved his fists, and Benvolio quickly scooped him up so as not to drop him into the font. Rosaline laughed, and Friar Lawrence gave an indulgent smile.

Too young to comprehend the holy sacrament, Marcello continued to protest the indignity of the rest of the ceremony. He squirmed as he was anointed with chrism and burst into a full-throated wail when Friar Lawrence draped a fine cloth of white linen over his head. Benvolio shifted Marcello so that he held the baby against his shoulder. As he did so, he caught sight of Aunt Susanna, standing beside Uncle Tiberio. Aunt Susanna motioned to him, miming something. After a moment, Benvolio understood, and bounced Marcello gently. Several of the ladies near the front shot him looks of sympathy, and Mercutio clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle a burst of laughter.

Friar Lawrence grinned broadly and handed a baptismal candle to Rosaline, intoning the final blessing, raising his voice so as to be heard over Marcello's cries. "Marcello Tiberio," Friar Lawrence intoned, "go in peace and the Lord be with you. Amen."

"Amen!" shouted Benvolio and Rosaline and Romeo. The organ pealed, and Friar Lawrence began to recess away from the font. Benvolio took advantage of the opportunity and handed Marcello off to Romeo. To his grim amusement, Marcello ceased his howling the moment that his father reclaimed him.

"'tis a wise child knows his own father," Rosaline said with a smile, and slipped her hand through the crook of Benvolio's arm so that they could make a dignified exit.

* * *

><p>After the baptismal Mass, Romeo hosted a gathering in his home for Marcello's family and friends. Juliet sat in a large chair, enthroned at the center of the great salon, wearing her best red dress and holding Marcello on her lap. She received the guests and their congratulations with a gracious smile, though Benvolio could see the lingering weariness in her eyes. Benvolio made sure to keep his speech brief, and stroked a finger over Marcello's soft cheek. Marcello seemed to have forgiven his uncle the indignity of the christening, and merely gurgled at him. With a final murmured congratulation, Benvolio kissed Juliet's brow and went in search of a drink.<p>

Holding the glass forced him to move with some care, though he feared that he might drop it at an inopportune moment. Usually, Benvolio loved social gatherings, but this one upset him in many small ways. The house in which Romeo dwelled with his wife and son was achingly familiar to Benvolio, for it had been the house in which he had dwelled with his own parents, Lucio and Floria Montague, until his seventh year, when an earthquake had killed them. Though he had not dwelt in this house for twelve years, its rooms and corridors still haunted Benvolio with their lingering familiarity. It should have been his, save only that Lucio had not thought to amend his will while his son was small, and the property had derived to Lucio's brother Tiberio, who had bestowed it upon his own son, Romeo.

A burst of laughter sprayed forth from a corner of the room where Uncle Tiberio was holding court. Uncle Tiberio's eyes sparkled with the thrill of whatever story he had just told, but some of the glow faded as his gaze fell upon Benvolio. Benvolio took a sip of wine and turned away.

He glanced around the room and spied Mercutio bouncing Marcello in his arms beneath the watchful eyes of Juliet and her nurse, old Angelica. As usual, warmth flooded through Benvolio at the sight of his consort, but today, even such a pleasant thing brought its own pain. Mercutio was not godfather to Marcello, as he should have been, as Romeo had asked of him. But Uncle Tiberio's cold anger at what he still saw as Mercutio's wicked seduction of his nephew had made that request impossible to fulfill, and indeed, it was only by Romeo's insistence that Mercutio had been invited to the gathering at all.

Benvolio had made a careful effort to remove himself from Mercutio's immediate company, out of deference to Uncle Tiberio's comfort, but still his gaze lingered too long upon his lover. Uncle Tiberio glided swiftly over to his daughter-in-law's chair and reclaimed his grandson from Mercutio's unwholesome influence, covering all with a jolly laugh.

"Romeo, my son!" he called. "Come to thy father's side." Romeo approached, and Uncle Tiberio handed Marcello to him. He slung an arm around Romeo's shoulder and smiled at the crowd.

"Look you, worthy nobles, and see what Verona's summer hath wrought," Uncle Tiberio said. "See how the House of Montague flourishes! Let us drink the health of my son and my grandson, to the name of Montague!"

"A health," the guests replied. Benvolio drank with all the rest, but his throat swelled, and he barely managed to choke down the wine. He wondered bitterly if Uncle Tiberio recalled that his disgraced nephew also bore the name of Montague, even if he had been cast forth in shame, never to sire a child for the family. Tiberio's line would endure, but Lucio's would wither and die. Lucio's presence had already been erased from his erstwhile home, and his son belonged to no one any more.

All of a sudden, Benvolio could not bear to be in that salon a moment longer, conversing cheerfully with the guests and admiring Marcello. He changed his empty glass for a full one, and then slipped quietly through the crowd and up the stairs to the family quarters. Even after a dozen years, his feet still recalled the route, and soon he stood before the door to the room that had been his nursery. With a thrill of anticipation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was as if the gray curtains of the past had been pulled back. The room was fresh and clean, smelling of linen and of baby. The images of the saints on the wall glowed, and gauze curtains softened the glare of the midday sun. An old wooden cradle stood in the warmest corner, invitingly filled with bedding that had been washed until it was purest white. Benvolio drank deeply of his wine. In its comforting haze, he could almost make himself believe that Lucio and Floria would enter the room at any moment, eager to see their son, if only he waited patiently for them.

Footsteps outside the door caused his heart to beat wildly in anticipation, but instead of his mother and father, it was old Nurse Angelica who bustled into the room. She stopped short when she saw Benvolio and bobbed a half curtsey at him.

"Master Benvolio, what would you have here?" she asked. "I must send you away, saving your pardon, for I must prepare the cradle. The little master must have his sleep, poor little man, all the strangers have wearied him with their noise, and I would not spoil his disposition. Nay, he will be as charming as his mother, ay, and with his father's looks, you shall not doubt me, for he looks nothing like my lady. Had I not held her as she gave him birth, I might swear the fairies had changed the child, for he is all Montague."

"Thou shouldst speak with Mercutio, good Nurse," Benvolio said, smiling to hide his disappointment. "He will tell thee of fairies."

"What, that knavish rogue that is the Prince's kinsman? Nay, not I. I shall see this babe safely to his cradle and out of the gaze of strangers." As she spoke, she fixed Benvolio with a look so pointed that Benvolio was left without a doubt that he was the primary stranger of whom Nurse Angelica spoke. He sketched a quick bow, turned on his heel, and all but fled Marcello's nursery that had once been his.

A little further down the corridor was a nook that sheltered a great portrait of Lucio and Tiberio's grandsire, with a comfortable bench placed beneath it. This small nook had been one of Benvolio's favorite places to play with his toy soldiers or listen to his mother tell him stories on rainy days. He sat down at one end of the bench, then swung his legs up so that he would be at least partially hidden from anyone who came into that corridor. Thus shielded, he leaned back against the wall and pressed his fingers against the corners of his eyes to stifle the tears that threatened to flow.

Presently, he heard more footsteps in the corridor. He turned his head and leaned over just enough to spy Juliet bearing Marcello into the nursery, accompanied by her mother. They did not notice him at first, and Benvolio returned to contemplating his miserable estate. But after a short time, he heard footsteps again, and Juliet's voice bidding her mother and her nurse to return to the gathering and assuring them that she would follow shortly. She hurried over to Benvolio's nook, and he had just time enough to arrange his face into what he hoped was a pleasant expression before she knelt down beside his bench.

"Gentle Benvolio, wherefore dost thou sit here alone?" she asked. "Art thou ill? Dost thou require aid?"

"I am not ill, dear cousin," Benvolio said, trying to muster a smile but failing miserably. "The gathering has grown close, and I merely desired a breath of air."

Juliet frowned. "Thou art stifled? Ay, summer's warmth is still upon us. I shall open a window for thee." She rose, but Benvolio caught her arm.

"Prithee, Juliet, stay thy hand. I would not have thee fret for my sake." Benvolio closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What air I require, I have here. Go thou to thy guests, for I am no fit company for the gracious lady of this house." He opened his eyes to see Juliet gazing down at him. Worry and concern passed over her expression, and she gave a resigned little sigh.

"If that be thy desire," she murmured. "Shall I wish thee joy of thy solitude?"

"Nay, for thy wish would be in vain. No joy shall I have."

Juliet opened her mouth, as if to dispute that last remark, then thought better of it. She squeezed his hand quickly and departed, leaving Benvolio alone with his thoughts once more.

He drained the last of the wine in his goblet, then leaned his head against the wall of the alcove. The thought of another infant sleeping peacefully in his old nursery made a lump swell in his throat. Benvolio was immediately ashamed of himself and swallowed several times to prevent the hot tears from falling. Marcello was his beloved godson, and it must surely be beyond sinful to envy so small a babe on the very day of his christening.

Another set of footsteps pulled Benvolio from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Mercutio standing before him.

"Juliet bade me come," Mercutio said softly. "She said that thou didst tarry here, shunning the merriment below, and she is anxious over thy well-being. She told me that thou didst send her away, and she bade me come to thee in her stead."

This time, Benvolio did manage to muster a smile, though it was a poor and fleeting thing. "I thank thee for thy concern, _caro_," he said, "but I spoke truth to the lady. My woes are of mine own design, and there is none who could render aid for them."

Mercutio chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "Then thy woes are mine as well," he replied, "for it pains me to see thy misery."

He did not put out his hand to touch Benvolio, but sat down on the floor next to the bench, at Benvolio's side. He drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them, and spoke not a word. Benvolio rested his hand upon Mercutio's head, and caressed his hair once. A silence stretched out between them, though it bore no discomfort and no judgment. Mercutio did not raise his eyes to meet Benvolio's, but the sharp pain in Benvolio's heart melted into an ache. The pain did not vanish entirely, but Benvolio no longer feared that his heart would break. Time slowed, and it was only because he breathed that Benvolio knew that time had not stopped entirely.

* * *

><p>He knew not how long they sat together in silence, though it was long enough that the light from the windows began to shift and dim a little. Occasionally, Benvolio wondered if Mercutio would fall asleep, but Mercutio did not subside into dreams, but remained silently vigilant on the floor. Though they did not sleep, still Romeo's voice calling from the stairwell startled them both to wakefulness.<p>

"Benvolio! Mercutio!" Romeo called. He hurried down the corridor and stopped short at the alcove. "Ah, at last I have found you. The guests are departing. I sought you out in their number, but I found you not." His mouth pursed in puzzlement. "Wherefore sit you here so silently? Is aught amiss?"

At this latest intrusion, the lump swelled again in Benvolio's throat, so swiftly that he could not prevent the flood of tears. He leaned forward and choked out a thin, keening wail, no stronger than an infant's first cry. Mercutio turned around, and then swiftly pulled himself up to sit on the bench beside Benvolio. Seemingly at a loss for what to do next, he took Benvolio's hands in his and kissed them.

Benvolio shifted himself so that he could sit next to Mercutio and laid his head on Mercutio's shoulder, so that he need not see Romeo watching him weep. Almost without thinking, Mercutio wound his arms around Benvolio and held him close. Thus shielded from prying eyes, Benvolio allowed himself to bewail his private misery. He was dimly aware that Romeo remained nearby, not daring to intrude, but merely waiting for the first storm to pass.

By degrees, Benvolio's cries melted into soft moans, and he was able to hear Mercutio's voice murmuring softly in his ear. As the shuddering of his body eased, it struck him that some of Mercutio's words were familiar to him. It took him but a few moments more to realize that Mercutio was repeating many of the same soft nonsense phrases that Benvolio was accustomed to speak when Mercutio wept. This thought summoned forth a watery little smile, and Benvolio was at last able to stop weeping. Mercutio smoothed sweat-dampened hair back from Benvolio's brow and pressed a soft kiss there.

"Dost thou walk in the world once more?" he asked.

Benvolio nodded against his shoulder. "Ay. I have no more tears left, I think. Thou hast comforted me marvelous much."

"I have learned well from a gentle master, then," Mercutio said, the corners of his mouth twisting up in a wry smile.

Romeo nudged Benvolio and sat down on the bench next to him, so that Benvolio was pressed tightly between the bodies of his two dearest friends. "Wilt thou speak, coz?" Romeo asked. "Prithee, tell me what ails thee, for it tears my heart to see thee weep on this day of joy."

Benvolio wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "It is mine own foolishness that is to blame," he admitted. "I came to these rooms to escape the crowd of guests, and I bethought me to seek out those places where I dwelled as a child. I earned my just reward in that, for I learned that the nursery that was mine is now Marcello's. I wish now that I had not done as I did, for a terrible humor came upon me, and it was as if my parents' death had returned from the past to assail me once more. A thousand pardons do I beg for the trespass."

"Oh, gentle coz, what sins dost thou speak of?" Romeo sighed. "I cannot forgive where there has been no sin. Indeed, perhaps I am at fault in this. In truth, I had near forgotten that thou didst not always dwell in my father's home. I should have spoken with thee ere I chose rooms for my son. I knew not that this one had been thy nursery."

"Then thou didst choose well," Benvolio said. "It has served well in that purpose before, and it will serve Marcello well now. He is my godson, and I should wish only the best of all things for him." He began to tremble again, and Mercutio tightened his embrace.

Romeo was silent for a moment, glancing down at his shoes. When he looked up again, his expression was thoughtful. "Do I guess right that thou didst not wish to escape the crowds, but rather one man only?" he asked.

Benvolio's blood turned to ice, for he knew not how to answer in such a way as to spare Romeo insult. Fortunately, after a moment's awkward silence, Mercutio relieved him of the burden.

"Romeo, thou knowest the esteem in which I hold thy noble father," Mercutio said. "Thou hadst eyes only for thy Juliet and thy Marcello, which is as it should be, but thou didst not see that thy father's welcome of his nephew lacked all but the coldest of charity. Almost I should say that I received the kinder welcome, though I am none of his kin."

Romeo sucked a sharp breath between his teeth upon hearing Mercutio's words, and a shadow of pained recognition flitted across his face. "Oh, Benvolio, gentle coz, I am sorry that my lord father has cast thee from his heart as well as his home. I have tried to plead thy cause, but he is deaf to all entreaties."

"I know his thoughts on the matter," Benvolio said. "He will not be swayed easily, not even by his son. I hold thee blameless."

"Ay, and I thank thee, coz. But hear now my words." Romeo's face grew stern. "Whatever else my father has said unto thee, thou hast thy name still. Thou art a son of the house of Montague, and none may take that from thee. Thou hast lost much, but thou hast not lost thy kin. Though my father be the lord of the house of Montague, still his is not the only voice in that noble clan. It was not without cause that I did name thee godfather to my son."

"Thou didst tell me of this ere Marcello's birth," Benvolio said, puzzled. "I was thy playmate as well as thy cousin, and thou didst say -"

"Ay, I did, but that is not the whole of the matter," Romeo said. "I have looked at the law, and I have made thee godfather and coparent to the heir of this house after me. My father may wish to speak no more with thee, but he cannot deny thy kinship, nor thy name, nor thy ties to this house. Thou art coparent to Marcello, Benvolio Montague, and I desire that thou take up that duty with solemn heart and firm will, just as I shall desire my father to recognize the man I choose to stand at my side and guide my son."

Benvolio did not reply to this immediately, but sat still and silent for a moment, absorbing the impact of what Romeo had said. "Thou . . . thou didst consult the law of Verona?" he choked out at last.

Romeo chuckled, but could not stop a blush from coloring his cheeks. "I begged the aid of Signior Capulet," he admitted. "I could not ask mine own lord father for this aid, for I knew that he would seek to dissuade me from naming thee godfather to my son, and -"

"Stop there, stop there!" Benvolio laughed a little. "I believe I may guess at the remainder of thy tale." He relaxed into Mercutio's embrace once more. "It was well done, and I thank thee for it, coz."

"In the course of my studies, I also learned wherefore I have been given this house," Romeo said quietly. "I know my father's reasons, but an thou wouldst have thy full inheritance from Lucio . . ." he let his voice trail off, but the offer still hung in the air between them.

Benvolio considered the offer. It was true that seeing Romeo and Juliet installed in his childhood home had stung him at the time, and the prospect of owning something that had been his father's did hold a certain appeal for Benvolio. But his venture into the nursery had made it clear to him that simple possession of this building could not bring him what he truly desired of it. Occupying his old rooms would not raise his parents from their graves, nor would it turn back time and make him someone's son once more. That path was barred to him, as it had been since the day that Aunt Susanna had hurried him away from the gate before he could look upon the bodies of Lucio and Floria Montague amidst the rubble of the balcony that had crashed to the ground beneath them.

"It is a most kind and generous offer," he said, "and I thank thee for making it. But I must decline this particular kindness. This house is no longer my home, and I fear that it would drive me mad to dwell here. I have a home that suits me well, with a beloved consort to welcome me there, just as thou hast."

Mercutio drew in a breath of surprise, and Benvolio snaked an arm around his waist and held him close. Romeo gave a wry smile of acknowledgement. Still holding Mercutio, Benvolio sat up straight and looked his cousin full in the eye.

"But this I will say unto thee, Romeo," he said. "An thou wouldst have me as coparent to thy son, then hear what I have to tell thee as his godfather. Engage the services of a lawer - thou mayst ask Signior Capulet to commend thee to one, or I shall ask the Prince's secretary. But find thee one who is learned in the law, and ask him to help thee to write a will. Keep it ever fresh, for thou knowest not when thy funeral bell shall toll. I would not see Marcello left in the state in which my father left me."

Romeo glanced down the corridor toward the nursery and nodded. "Ay, there is wisdom in thy words," he said. "I shall seek out a lawyer tomorrow. I thank thee for thy care of my son."

"Thinkst thou that thou canst walk again?" Mercutio asked. "An thou art well, we should not overstay our welcome in the home of a babe that demands the attention of its parents."

Benvolio nodded. "Ay, I am well, I thank thee. We shall take our leave. Prithee, Romeo, convey my apologies to thy lady, for I fear that I dealt churlishly with her in mine upset."

Romeo laughed. "An I know Juliet, she has already forgotten the offense. But I shall remind her on thy behalf."

* * *

><p>Benvolio told no one at the palace about his shameful behavior at Marcello's baptism. When the Prince's secretary queried him in the morning, he replied only that Marcello had cried, and that the gathering afterwards had been well attended. The secretary smiled to hear that report. "Some say that it is a sign when a babe cries out at baptism," he said. "They say that it is proof of the Devil leaving the child's body." This remark lightened Benvolio's guilt at having possibly mishandled his godson, and he was glad to hear it.<p>

He worked in peaceable silence for much of the day. At last, the light grew golden, and Benvolio began to tidy his books away. The creak of the door and the soft knock that followed made his heart beat faster with anticipation.

However, to his surprise, Mercutio had not come to greet him. Instead, it was Paris who stood in the doorway, cloaked as if for a journey. Benvolio hurriedly closed his account books and rose to greet his guest. "County Paris," he said, "I had not expected thee today."

Paris glanced away for a moment. "Ay," he murmured. "Forgive me, but I spoke with Mercutio today."

"Surely it is no sin to speak with Mercutio," Benvolio said with a smile. "Many people do so every day, and few come away the worse for it."

Paris laughed and gave a small bow to acknowledge this. "I trust thou art in a forgiving mood. Wilt thou walk with me a while? Mercutio will not miss thee this evening."

"Ay, I should be happy to accompany thee." In truth, Benvolio was more puzzled than anything else. Since Benvolio's arrival at the palace, Paris had become an accustomed companion, but not yet a friend, and Benvolio knew not what could have changed between them. Still, he was not one to reject an offer of friendship. He made sure that all his ledgers were in place and followed Paris out the door.

They walked through the streets in silence. Paris had little to say, and Benvolio dared not break the spell of his mood. Paris led him through narrow alleys and over a bridge, and at last, to Benvolio's surprise, they halted at the gates to the cemetery. "Forgive me," Paris said once more. "I know some of the pain in thy heart. I would not have disturbed thee, save only that Mercutio spoke of it to me. He meant well, for his thoughts were of thy welfare only, and he feared that he had not wit enough to soothe thee as thou hast merited."

Benvolio nodded; when Paris explained it, he could see in his mind's eye an image of how that conversation must have proceeded.

"I thought that I might show thee a thing that has given me a deep comfort in mine own times of sorrow," Paris finished.

"Lead on," Benvolio replied.

He followed Paris through the gates of the cemetery. They threaded their way along the paths until they came at last to one of the great monuments, a house of marble that guarded the entrance to a large subterranean vault. Above the door of the house was the name MONTAGUE carved in crisp, stark letters. It was the final home of Benvolio's ancestors, including the two most immediate. The sculptor had thoughtfully included a small bench just outside the door, perhaps to receive any ladies who might faint with grief at seeing a husband or child vanish into the ground.

Paris and Benvolio sat down upon this bench, and Paris produced two cups and a skin that smelled of wine from the depths of his cloak. He filled both cups and gave one to Benvolio. For a while, no words were spoken. The two young men drank in silence, contemplating the stillness of the tomb.

"Thy parents married just before an influenza came to Verona," Paris said at last. "I was very young then, but I can recall flashes of the occasion if I am still and calm. My mother and my nurse took me to see the grand procession. I was very excited, and then I had more excitement when we removed to the countryside for a fortnight. I suppose I was too small to comprehend the dangers of the influenza."

Benvolio smiled. The Montagues also maintained a small villa in the hills just outside the city, and he and Romeo had been taken there on similar occasions when they were small.

"I would often see thy lady mother at church," Paris went on. "She and Lady Susanna were great friends of my mother and my Aunt Donatella. I think that Mass was the only time that they could all gather together, for I recall that my mother and I attended Mass quite often when I was small. After the service finished, the ladies would sit and gossip, and I climbed upon all of them. I preferred my mother and my Aunt Donatella, of course, but Lady Floria was free with her embraces as well. I suspect that she longed for a child of her own."

"Perhaps it is best that she is dead," Benvolio said softly, "for I shall not break her heart by producing no grandchildren for her to adore."

"Speak not so. Thy mother adored thee, and she would have done all in her power to ensure thy happiness."

"Perhaps, but what of my father? He would not have been so eager to see his line come to an end."

Paris laughed. "Do not confuse Lucio for Tiberio! I knew thy father a little, for he was friendly with mine - my parents were careful to maintain ties to both the houses of Montague and Capulet, and I suspect that they preferred to associate with Lucio, the younger son, for this would not anger Leonardo Capulet as much. My mother was also friendly with Leonardo's sisters. Perhaps thou dost recall the blessing that Helena's mother gave me at our wedding? That was in memory of her acquaintance with my mother."

Benvolio nodded, though in fact he did not recall that particular interaction. He had attended Paris's wedding, but he had been so numb with the shock of his own impending transfer that much of it had been a blur to him.

"I recall some few occasions when my father permitted me to serve the wine when Lucio Montague visited," Paris said. "Lucio spoke constantly of matching and of how best to create alliances between families. I wonder if he might have found the value in matching thee to Mercutio, were he in the proper humor to think of it. After all, Romeo has proved competent to carry on the name of Montague. Thou hast effected another alliance, and that was always one of Lucio's great passions."

It was an appealing picture, Benvolio had to admit. In the place of Uncle Tiberio's disapproval and Aunt Susanna's carefully concealed disappointment, might he have had - he could not bring himself to imagine outright enthusiasm from his parents, but perhaps a certain sense of adventurousness? Would his father have laughed at the cleverness of the Prince's proposal? He shuddered, and a few tears leaked from his eyes.

Paris reached around Benvolio's back to put a hand on his far shoulder. "I have often wondered what my parents would have made of the man I have become," he said. "I shall never know the answer to that. But I know that I am forever their son, whether in this world or the next, and we shall all meet again one day. Do not give up thy hope, Benvolio. Though thou art in thine uncle's disgrace, still thou art thy father's son. Thou needst not give up Lucio and Floria, even if thou canst not see them at present."

Benvolio could not answer, for he was openly weeping now. But these tears were not the same as the ones he had shed the day before. Where his earlier tears had served but to increase his misery, these tears seemed to carry it away, one salty drop at a time. Paris gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, then rose and walked away in the direction of his own family monument.

* * *

><p>The sun had almost fully set by the time that Benvolio and Paris had finished with their respective visits with their parents. They returned to the palace in silence, though much of the tension between them had vanished. They walked now as friends, between whom a little silence did no harm. By the time they arrived, the night guards had come on duty. Benvolio bade Paris a good night and went up to the chamber that he shared with Mercutio.<p>

As he pushed open the door, Mercutio hurried across the room from the balcony where he had been waiting. "I am glad to see thee home again, sweet friend," he said. "Did Paris give thee his wisdom? He assured me that he would do so. I hope that I have not given thee offense in this; I thought only that Paris could comfort thee better than I in this matter -"

"Peace, Mercutio," Benvolio said with a chuckle. "Paris has indeed given me much wisdom, and naught but a fool should take offense at that. I thank thee for thinking of my welfare." He kissed Mercutio to show that he had in fact appreciated the gesture.

Mercutio's energy did not diminish, and his eyes sparkled. "I am also glad that thou art arrived, for now thou mayst open thy gift. I have waited for hours to discover what it may be." He indicated a large wooden box that sat on the bed.

"Why, whence cometh this?" Benvolio asked, intrigued.

"It was Balthasar, Romeo's man. He delivered it here shortly after Paris left with thee. I accepted it, so that he might have no need to wait, for I knew not how long thou wouldst remain with Paris."

"It was good of thee to think of it," Benvolio replied absently. He ran his fingers over the plain dark wood. It had that rough silkiness that comes only with age, but the edges showed that it had recently been handled and used. Benvolio turned the box until he located the catches that held it shut. He released them and opened the box, releasing a puff of musty scent into the air.

Inside was a parcel wrapped in sackcloth. A letter lay on top of it, the only part of the gift that was new. Benvolio's name was written on the letter in Romeo's handwriting. Benvolio broke the seal and began to read.

_My dearest cousin,_

_I pray thee accept this small token of thanks for the honor that thou hast done me in standing godfather to my son. Though these are not a new commission, but rather a discovery that I have made from my father's storage chambers, still I think they will suit thee better than a birth tray such as any man might commission of any artist._

_With all my love,_

_Romeo_

Benvolio tucked the letter back in the box and picked up the parcel. It was heavier than he had expected, and it rattled a little in his hands. Mercutio helped him to steady it as he sliced through the twine with his belt knife and pulled away the sackcloth to reveal two framed portraits.

One showed a young lady dressed in a fine blue gown with golden trim. A net of jewels sparkled in her dark hair, matching the sparkle of her eyes. A small monkey was frozen in the act of climbing up her arm. The other portrait was of a gentleman perhaps fifteen or twenty years older than the lady, his cap at a rakish angle, and the hair at his temples just beginning to show some gray. His doublet was dark green, and a short cape was draped over his shoulder, the copper-colored silk so skillfully painted that its glowing folds almost looked real. Benvolio could not recall ever having seen these paintings before, but nevertheless, the recognition hit him with the force of a blow to the stomach, and he could not speak for a few moments.

Mercutio leaned forward to inspect the inscriptions that the artist had included at the base of each portrait. "Lucio Montague and his bride, the lovely Floria," he read. "Thy parents! These must have been commissioned for their wedding."

"I think they might have hung in the old house," Benvolio said, "though I cannot recall them. I guess that Uncle Tiberio put them away when he closed the place; perhaps the sight of their likenesses was too painful to recall immediately after their deaths."

"Or the living likeness sufficed. Thou hast the stamp of both of them in thy countenance."

Mercutio went to the dressing table and picked up the bronze mirror in its walnut frame that stood there. He carried it carefully over to the bed and held it so that Benvolio could see the reflection of his face framed by the portraits of Lucio and Floria. Benvolio turned his head this way and that, and with each angle, he was able to see some echo of a feature in one of the portraits. Charmed at the thought, he smiled, and Mercutio laughed delightedly.

"Now thou dost resemble thy lady mother, save that thy eyes are thy father's," he said.

Benvolio laid the portraits down on the bed. "I must . . . they must remain," he choked out. "Wilt thou have them in thy chamber?"

"Thy chamber as well," Mercutio said, then frowned. "Perhaps placed so that they might not look upon the bed." He surveyed the room, and pointed to a portion of the wall near the door that faced the balcony more than the bed. "What of that space?"

Benvolio nodded. "Ay, that is ideal. I shall fetch someone directly."

He left Mercutio to replace the mirror on the dressing table and clear away the box and wrapping, while he went and begged the indulgence of a servant who was just about to retire for the evening. His plea was passionate enough that the man quickly agreed to help. The portraits were still in their original frames and ready to hang, and it was the work of but a few moments to install them in their new home. Benvolio thanked the servant profusely, and Mercutio produced a few coins for the man's pains. When the servant had gone, Benvolio allowed himself to bask in his parents' gaze for a moment, and then turned back to Mercutio.

"Come, _caro_, stand at my side," he said. "There is one more act of filial piety I would perform ere we retire."

Mercutio obligingly came to him. "What wouldst thou do?"

"I would present thee to my parents. Now that I may look upon them again, I would have them know my love."

Mercutio, himself possessed of a lively imagination and an instinctive sense of poetry, nodded as if this were an entirely logical proposition. Benvolio took his hand and turned him to face Lucio and Floria.

"My honored mother, my most noble father," he said to the portraits, "I wish to present to you Mercutio Rinuccini, my dear beloved consort. I humbly beg you to take him into your hearts as I have taken him into mine, to honor him as a son, as I esteem him the boon companion of my heart."

For a moment, no one spoke. In that silence, Benvolio began to feel a little shamed. After all, they were only portraits, and only a child or a great fool would actually believe that they could acknowledge the pair who stood before them. But before he could give in to the shame, Mercutio squeezed his hand.

"Look thou, sweet friend," he said, and pointed to the portraits. "See how they smile at thee."

Benvolio looked up. And indeed, the artist had painted both Lucio and Floria with soft, inviting smiles on their faces, as might befit any young couple anticipating a happy marriage.

"I have seen smiles such as that on the faces of Romeo and Juliet when they look upon Marcello," Mercutio said. "I think that is the smile of a loving parent. Thy parents love thee, Benvolio." His voice held the wonder and astonishment of a fantastic discovery.

Benvolio abandoned his formal posture and turned to embrace Mercutio, clasping him close and breathing in his warm, living scent as their bodies fitted against each other. Above them, on the wall, Lucio and Floria Montague smiled at their son and at his renewed joy in life.

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><p>END<p>

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><p>Afterword: Many thanks to everyone who has made it through this long story and enjoyed it. Special thanks to Hyarrowen for planting the idea in my mind that would grow into this story!<p> 


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